


unafraid (the love song of éponine thénardier)

by owlinaminor



Series: children of the barricade [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 01:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1326427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>her name was éponine.  her life was cold and dark, yet she was unafraid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unafraid (the love song of éponine thénardier)

**Author's Note:**

> Have you ever noticed that the melody during Valjean's and Fatine's death scenes (particularly the melody for: "to love another person is to see the face of God") is the melody from On My Own? Have you? Because I have. My theory is that this is because Éponine represents the ideal altruistic love; she helps Marius find his happiness even though she desperately wants to be with him, which is kind-of the ideal for romantic writers such as Victor Hugo. She's the Sidney Carton of Les Mis, only ... better.
> 
> This fic is inspired partially by that observation, partially by the T. S. Elliot poem The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (as you might have guessed from the title), and partially by the amazing performance of my friend who recently played Éponine in our school's production of Les Mis.
> 
> Also: the lack of capitalization is entirely for stylistic purposes, not because I'm incapable of adhering to basic rules of grammar or anything.

> _her name was éponine.  her life was cold and dark, yet she was unafraid._

loving him is a night full of stars.

her life was so dark (before he smiled at her), hollowed out with the empty words of parents who lived for the next bit of cash and sewer boys who wanted to take as much as they could grab.  her childhood was swathes of light just barely in reach of her impatient fingers, vague memories of drunken laughter, pretty dresses with dirt underneath the seams, a little girl in rags curled up under the table whom she didn’t quite know how to pity – and she’s paying for it now, paying for it with every threadbare blanket she throws over her bed and every sewer she climbs into to escape the relentless men in uniform she’s so tired of fighting.

she is climbing out of a sewer when she first sees him.  he is clean – clean, with a jacket not torn and a face not weathered.  he doesn’t make sense to her, because cleanliness in her neighborhood is a dream that cannot be – but there he is nevertheless.  he notices her (and no man _ever_ notices her unless he wants something), and he offers her a hand to help her up, and he smiles at her.

her heart forgets how to beat when he smiles at her.

the realization comes not long after their friendship begins in earnest, huddled over a table in the cafe musain and laughing at the world so young and new and built just for them.  the realization comes easily, like breathing: _she would do anything for him_.  she is so close to him, she could lean forward and brush his lips with her own – so simple, so sweet, so easy, but too soon and he may smile at her tonight but he is a gentleman in the morning.

and so life carries on, as life always must, and yet she holds onto him.  he is a star burning so bright across the sky, and she would be scorched at a touch but she can _look_.  she can look, and listen, and mutter benedictions under her breath whenever she is near him.

the end begins so quickly, she almost misses it.

one look in the square is all it takes.  (she isn’t surprised, not really.  one look was all it took for her.)  he is staggering, like a man possessed – he is all slow violins and ringing harps – and it is all she can do not to fall to the cobblestones and weep.  he comes to her, to the one woman who’d do anything for him, begs her for help with this look in his eyes as though he’d die if she – she, she, some mysterious _she_ – couldn’t be found.

little he knows, little he sees, little he cares.

he is in love, not with her, and she is unraveling.  she was a ball of yarn wound too tight and he pulled the string, she has no center, only his voice as he sings words never meant for her to hear.  the wall is so cold, she is a worm wriggling on a pin – cannot stay, cannot leave.  she loves him and curses herself in the same breath.

loving him is a night full of stars, a city of unfamiliar faces, a rose spreading to cover her chest.

he is like a ghost to her – always with her, with every breath blink heartbeat.  she can push him back but he will reappear, smiling and teasing in her mind late at night and preventing her sleep.  so she gets up, she sneaks out the creaky wooden door, and she walks the streets of paris until the sun pokes its weary head above the horizon.  he walks with her.

she only wants him to be happy.

and that’s so hard – because for him, happy is not with her – but it is so easy – because she would do anything for him.  she can fold herself up into a tiny paper bird with fragile paper wings and set herself on the shelf in his closet.  she can, she can.  she makes the decision as the sun rises above the barricade, burning her face as she shuts her eyes against its warmth.

she does not hear the shot – she only feels it.

she is the first to fall.  there will be others – so many others – following her into the dark, crashing and burning like insignificant paper soldiers on the doomed general’s map.  but she is the first, she is the worst, she is the best.

she does not believe in god or in hell, but she does believe in one thing: she believes in him.  his heart is straight and true, a shooting star through her world of smoke and ash.  he will find happiness, and that is enough.  it will be without her, but that is enough.

she prays to dame fortuna that marius will not perish in the battle to come – that he will live on – that he will remember the friend who died in his arms.  once, she would have wished that she could taste his smile before her flame went out, but now, it is enough if he remembers.

her heart was shattered like too-fragile glass long before the bullet dared to step close.

and so she does not go gently into that good night – she runs her hand along his wet cheek and trills in a major key.  she does not fall – she flies.

she goes out with a song.

i am éponine you are éponine we are all éponine.  we carry her in our hearts and let her sing when we look upon those we love.  do not measure your life in coffee spoons – measure it in the chimes of a laugh and the points of almost contact and the stars in the night sky.  let your footsteps bring you closer.  let the sun warm your soul even though a touch would burn you beyond repair.

do not let her sacrifice be in vain.


End file.
